


Bitten

by loves_books



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Death, Horror, Lewis Fright Fest 2014, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 13:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2549012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It only takes one bite to change everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitten

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Lewis Fright Fest 2014. My first attempt at writing horror, and this is what happened. Nothing too graphic, I think, but please read the warnings.
> 
> Huge thanks to Willowbrooke for being a wonderful beta. Any remaining mistakes are all down to me.

The pain is unexpected, the sensation like nothing James has ever felt before, and it takes him a long moment to register what’s happening. Teeth, sharp teeth sinking into the soft skin of his arm, biting deep. Not a dog but a man trying to get free, desperate not to be arrested. 

The bite hurts like hell at first, and James has to fight the instinctive urge to swear loudly or, preferably, to just punch the offending thug in the face until he lets go. He doesn’t, of course, settling for peeling the older man off his arm instead, trying not to throw up at the throb of pain which shivers up his arm as those visibly dirty teeth are pulled out of his skin. He satisfies himself by snapping one handcuff into place with far more force than is truly necessary, but before he can lock the second one the suspect twists and kicks out, catching James between the legs. The man is gone before a panting Lewis finally arrives to find his sergeant a bleeding and groaning heap on the floor.

After sending uniform after the fleeing man, Lewis helps James carefully to his feet, wincing as he sees the bloody wound on the inside of James’s left forearm, near the delicate veins in his wrist. “You should get that seen to properly,” he orders immediately, and only James could pick out the concern buried beneath the seemingly gruff voice. The older man’s hands are tender and gentle as he rolls James’s shirt sleeve up past his elbow, exposing the injury fully. “You’ll need to get it cleaned and make sure your jabs are up to date.”

Ordinarily James would protest. There is still work to be done, after all, paperwork for one thing, and hopefully interviews to be carried out if the pursuing officers catch the man they believe responsible for a string of grisly and bloody murders. But the bite really does hurt like hell, and the pain is more than a little distracting, and so after a token argument he lets a uniformed constable drive him to the A and E so a nurse can clean and disinfect the wound. 

The skin around the bite is raw and red, deep bruising blossoming already, with the clear imprint of human teeth all in stark contrast to the natural pallor of James’s skin. No stitches are necessary in the end but he does get a whole series of injections, a thick padded dressing, and a bottle of pills to take away with him.

James gets right back to the station when they finally let him out of the hospital, keeping his bandaged left arm close to his chest, and buries himself in his work. He tries to ignore the constant throb which reminds him of the moment ragged teeth had sunk into the flesh of his arm, and for the most part, he succeeds.

Unfortunately, their only suspect seems to have vanished into thin air, but there is still endless paperwork to be filed, and healing to be done. James takes his antibiotics as ordered, and takes painkillers as necessary. He keeps the dressing clean and dry, wrapping it in cling-film in the shower, and visits his GP to get it checked over a week later. The bite seems to be healing up just fine, the bruising already fading to yellows and greens instead of vivid black and blue, and the torn skin scabbing over just as it should. No sign of infection, and that should have been that.

It isn’t, though, not quite. James knows something isn’t right, but for a long time he isn’t sure exactly what could be wrong. The skin on his left arm feels itchy and tight, but he tells himself that’s perfectly normal as it knits back together. It was a deep bite, after all, and the human mouth really is a filthy place.

They never catch the man who bit James, the man they are now certain has killed many innocent people. But thankfully, since the man fled arrest, there have been no new victims and gradually, other new cases start to take priority, as much as it galls everyone to leave such a vicious and high-profile case unsolved. 

James has begun to find it hard to sleep at night since the failed arrest and his injury, which surprises him as he’s usually so exhausted from long hours at work that he’s out like a light the second his head hits the pillow. Now, he finds his brain buzzing long into the small hours of the morning, and the little rest he does manage to snatch is filled with broken images of shattered glass, and the sounds of echoing cries. And blood, red rivers of blood flowing from screaming yet faceless bodies. 

There is always blood now when James dreams. So much blood.

Just a touch of insomnia, he thinks. Not unexpected, and not the first time. It’s the stress of failing to catch the killer, of leaving the grieving families with no closure, and he tries as well as he can to put it out of his mind. It’s difficult, though – mornings have never been a particularly good friend to him, but now they are simply impossible without copious amounts of energy drinks and handfuls of caffeine pills, on top of his usual breakfast of coffee and nicotine.

Lewis notices, of course he does, and he comments frequently, tutting when James reaches for yet another Red Bull. “There is such a thing as too much caffeine, y’know? Can’t have you shaking so hard you get jittery in front of the suspects. Though I don’t suppose the victims would mind much.” Typical Lewis, James thinks with a smile, burying his genuine concern beneath sarcasm and jokes.

So for Lewis’s sake, he tries to cut down on the caffeine, just a little. Tries to haul his disturbed sleeping patterns back into some kind of normal rhythm, though his efforts seem to make no difference. And the skin of his left arm still itches, sensitive to every touch. The brush of his shirt against the healing skin there is almost unbearable at times.

When he stops to think about it, he realises that it’s not just his skin that has become overly sensitive. It’s just the lack of sleep, James tells himself, scratching absently at his arm. That’s why the sun is always too bright, and why he wears his sunglasses almost all the time now. That’s why Lewis’s voice is always a little too loud, and why James has to try not flinch even when his boss speaks softly; in fact, almost all sounds are too loud for James now, too sharp and piercing to his suddenly delicate ears. 

His sense of smell is too sensitive as well. He’s always loved the smell of coffee, but now those roasted beans are quite simply the most amazing, wonderful, heavenly scent in the whole entire world. On the other hand, James has never been keen on the scent of lavender, and now the merest whiff makes him want to vomit. Or want to tear the hands off the woman sitting opposite him in the coffee shop, taking her time applying scented hand lotion.

Hmm, James thinks distractedly as he imagines the blood dripping steadily from her severed limbs. That’s new.

He stops eating, more or less, though it takes him nearly two weeks to realise he hasn’t done any food shopping in far too long. Work has been particularly busy in spite of the unsolved case, lots of late nights and early mornings which really haven’t helped his broken sleep patterns, and he and Lewis often barely pause to grab a sandwich or eat takeout at their desks. James eats mechanically whenever there is food placed in front of him, and surprisingly everything tastes of cardboard even though it might smell amazing. He just isn’t hungry. 

Not hungry for dry canteen sandwiches or lukewarm fish and chips, at least. He finds he is craving something richer, thicker.

“You’ll waste away, lad.” Lewis fusses over him, trying to tempt him with what has always been James’s favourite curry, and frowning when it gets pushed away after only a few bites. “You’ve never been much more than skin and bones, though I know you’re stronger than you look. You can’t afford to lose any more weight, or you’ll vanish on me altogether. And you’re too important to me to just disappear.”

James doesn’t eat more. He can’t, not even for Lewis, but he doesn’t lose any weight either. That, on top of everything else, tells him something really isn’t right, and so he puts up little resistance when a worried Lewis orders him to go back to his GP. He even lets the older man drive him to the appointment, thankful when Lewis waits in the car rather than walking him in to the surgery.

His doctor examines him carefully, clearly a little concerned by the vague symptoms James describes. He listens to James’s heart and his breathing, and takes his blood pressure – all the readings are a little low, but apparently nothing to be overly worried about. He spends a long time examining the freshly healed bite mark on James’s left arm, peering closely at the skin there. The bruising has long since gone, the scabs fallen away to reveal nothing but fresh pink skin, and there is no sign of infection. 

James goes through the motions, obediently making a fist when asked, flexing his arm, reporting honestly that there is no pain. His skin still itches a little, but the doctor reassures him that’s natural as the bite is still healing beneath the surface. James is probably just run down, the GP decides, and perhaps has a cold coming on. Some blood is taken for testing, just in case, and James is sent away with a few days’ worth of sleeping pills and an order to rest.

He has every intention of obeying, he really does. But for the rest of the day, and long into the night, all James can focus on is the memory of the feeling as his blood pumped strongly from his body, flowing into the three tiny vials the doctor had filled. So red, so fresh. So alive.

The sleeping pills help, despite his initial reluctance to use them, sending him spiralling down deep into a dreamless sleep within minutes. Mornings are worse for a while, and James sleeps through more than one call-out as waking becomes nearly impossible. Finally, with a little experimenting and Lewis’s endless patience, James finds a balance by taking only half a sleeping pill and having the strongest caffeine tablets he can find on hand when he surfaces groggily. He sleeps like the dead at night and forces himself back to life each morning, and it’s the closest he’s come in months to a regular sleeping pattern.

He can fool himself into thinking he’s getting better, but he isn’t fooling Lewis, not for a single second. “You look like death warmed up, James,” his boss frets, frowning across the office at him. “Not a scrap of colour in your cheeks, not that there was ever much to begin with. I’d swear you look like you’ve seen a ghost, you’re that pale. You need to get some sun, and get some proper rest. Take a holiday, maybe.”

Perhaps he should. Everything is slowly becoming too much, and now, when Lewis stands too close, James could almost swear he can hear the blood rushing in the older man’s veins. It can’t be, of course. No one human could hear another man’s pulse. It has to be his own heartbeat he can hear, not Lewis’s, a steady thump-thump. 

He can’t smell the other man’s blood, either, of course. No, that’s just his imagination. 

James sees blood everywhere he looks now, and of course his work only makes that worse. When they arrive at a new crime scene, the sight and the smell of it is almost overwhelming, and he has to force himself to listen as Doctor Hobson gives them the details of the victim, ignoring the way he can hear her heart pumping strongly, and ignoring the distracting thump-thump-thump of Lewis’s own pulse by his side. He can only try not to stare at the beautiful red pattern splattered on the ground, drained from the lifeless corpse. 

More than anything, James just wishes the blood didn’t smell so damn good.

“You’re good, you are,” Lewis compliments him one time, shaking his head in amazement after James spots an impossibly tiny trail of blood flecks long before SOCO had reached the scene. The trail had lead them to the discovery of a second victim, still somehow clinging to life by her fingertips. “Sharp eyes, even behind those poncy dark sunglasses of yours. I’m impressed.”

James just shrugs, wishing he could tell Lewis the horror he’d felt when he realised he wanted to chase after that trail until he’d found the source of it. How he’d been able to hear her pulse beating slower and slower as the seconds passed, calling to him. Beckoning him closer. 

He thinks he knows, now, what he is becoming. He knows what is happening to him. It scares him, yet excites him at the same time. 

He’s familiar with all the legends, understands the history. Far back before Dracula, there was Lilith. Tales of the Vetalas from India, of the Lilitu from Babylonia, the Empusae and Lamiae from Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome. Mythology from Eastern Europe, particularly the stories about Vlad Terpes, right through to the current obsession fuelled by films starring handsome teenage boys with sharp teeth and glowing skin. Stories, all of them. Tales, rumours, and myths. Nothing more than that.

And yet.

This want, this need, this lust – it courses through his veins like electricity. He doesn’t know how long his self-control can last.

And when he sits by Lewis’s side that same night on the other man’s sofa, listening to the steady thump-thump-thump of that strong heart rather than the telly, picturing the bright blood rushing through miles of veins and arteries rather than taking in the room around him, imagining the taste of that rich blood rather than the tasteless beer he sips automatically – when he sits pressed against Lewis’s side as he has done a thousand times before, he knows his control is nearly gone.

All he wants to do is to lean closer, to tilt Lewis’s head back, to bare his teeth – 

To bite down.

To drink his fill.

Horrified, James makes his excuses quickly and leaves in a daze, stumbling home along pavements filled with people who have suddenly become little more than walking bags of blood to him. He feels the urge to taste, to bite, but he can’t, he won’t, he mustn’t – 

When he eventually reaches his flat, James doesn’t take his half a sleeping pill as he usually would. Instead, he packs a bag, shoving in haphazard handfuls of clothing and snatching up a few random books. On the way back out he pauses, turning back to grab his guitar case, unable to abandon his baby even now. Then he leaves as fast as he can.

He doesn’t bother locking the door behind himself. He isn’t coming back.

James drives hard and fast for the rest of the night and most of the next day, fear keeping him awake and moving as the sun burns high above him. Eventually, somewhere on the northern coast of Scotland, he finds himself a deserted cabin of sorts, little more than a shed really, and he cowers in the blessed darkness there, whispering prayers to a God he is no longer sure exists.

He thinks for one brief, beautiful moment about ending it all. He brought a gun with him after all, slightly illegal though it might well be, and he has a knife too. So many ways in which he could spill his own blood, and that might be an end to it – perhaps that would even stop this craving of his, this need he knows he can’t fight much longer.

But with a bitter laugh, James buries his head in his hands, knowing he won’t do it. He could never do it. He may no longer be as certain of his faith as he used to be, but some teachings are too deeply ingrained to ever be broken. He won’t take his own life, but he refuses to be a threat to anyone else either.

He’s still sitting, frozen, in the same position two days later when Lewis somehow finds him. James can hear his approach long before he reaches the door, hearing the familiar thump-thump-thump of that always strong and steady heart, the rhythm calling out to James until he has to bite down on his own fist to stop himself running out to meet the other man.

Perhaps Lewis will leave. Perhaps he doesn’t know James is there. Perhaps – 

Perhaps not.

“Oh James, look at you.” Lewis looms large in the doorway as James hisses in sudden pain at the too-bright sunshine spilling into his shadowy nest. “Thank goodness I’ve found you. Whatever’s wrong, pet, I’m here now. I’ll help you, I promise. Everything will be okay.”

“You shouldn’t’ve come,” James manages to rasp out, his eyes screwed tightly shut, hands clenched into fists in an attempt to stay still. He grits his teeth, trying to lock his jaw. It takes almost all his strength.

“You gave me such a scare,” Lewis continues softly, taking a slow step forwards into the room. “Disappearing on me the way you did. Didn’t you think I’d be worried about you? Don’t you know by now just how important you are to me?”

James can hear the honest worry and affection in the older man’s voice, though it’s hard to focus on that over the constant thump-thump-thump-thump. Faster now, that familiar heartbeat, rich blood racing fast beneath thin skin, so close now, so very close – 

“You shouldn’t have come,” he bites out, choking on a sob. “You have to go, now. Please, Sir, leave me here. Just go, please go…”

He’s crying now, helpless as the other man kneels down in front of him. “Oh, love,” Lewis murmurs softly, one hand reaching out to rest gently on James’s bowed head, almost in benediction. “Oh lad, you have no idea. I couldn’t let you go, not like that. We’ll fix it, I promise, whatever it is. Come here, now.”

And James finds himself tugged forwards into a strong embrace, his head guided in to shelter against Lewis’s neck, shielding him from that burning sunshine. He has no strength left to resist, and no desire any longer to stop himself as that strong pulse is suddenly right there, calling to him. On offer for him and him alone.

“I’m so sorry,” James whispers through his tears, as a strange numbness descends on him. All around there is nothing but that thump-thump-thump, and the rush of tempting blood.

So close now. So very close.

And he opens his mouth, breathes deeply one last time. And he bites.


End file.
